Slow Motion Sickness
by tell them i hate them
Summary: I wonder what he would say if I told him I went willingly. [WxV, KxV]


A/N: Songfics are fun. "Cry Myself to Sleep" by Dave Navarro. I'd like to apologize in advance for this. 

_- _

_there was this friend of mine  
he tried to make history and tried to play games with me  
and did so successfully  
_

_i cry   
i cry myself to sleep at night_

_-_

I hate him, you know.

Once I heard someone say that you're not supposed to hate the sinner. You're supposed to hate the sin. I think it was a preacher like him who said that. Yeah, okay. He's my brother. He's trying to look out for me, trying to do what he thinks is best for me.

So he says, anyway.

He kills people. He uses them up and disposes of them when he's done. Garbage, he says, and moves on to the next one. He's either lying to me or he's deluding himself when he says he's doing it all for me. I know why he does it. He does it for the same reason he did it to her: they've taken me away from him.

I wonder what he would say if I told him I went willingly. Vague platitudes, I'm sure, all condescending and all false. That's not me talking, it's them.

_there was this man i knew   
he came to move in with us   
he took all my dreams away   
he's taken my mom away_

_i cry   
i cry myself to sleep at night_

_- _

"I was going to spare her," he told me. I guess he doesn't realize that the naive, innocent act I try to pull off is only an act. To be honest, I don't think I've believed many of the things he's told me. Even the "I love you" bit.

Especially the "I love you" bit.

Over and over again he told me that he wanted to get me away from all of them, because all they did was hurt me. We're too perfect for them, you and me. They'll eat us alive and throw us out when we're spent.

It's not me he cares about. Not me who he loves. It's his vision, his perfect world. His perfect world where he gets to be God, where he can have his pretty little toy next to him - otherwise, it's not complete.

Oh, I pity Legato sometimes. Then again, no one held a fucking gun to his head. ... I hate having thoughts like that. Where's your mercy and compassion, Vash? Don't want to become your brother now, do you?

But I'm done being his pretty little toy. I was done the second he pushed himself into me. Taking what he wanted when I wouldn't give it to him. Is that what you do for someone you love, Knives? You've told me we're above the emotions that humans put so much stock in, that we can't make the same mistakes that can result from wasting so much energy on feeling. Then again, I've decided that you're just a fucking sociopath, which is a very human tendency. Of course, I was never the one claiming to be superior. I was never the one spouting this ridiculous genocidal tripe.

Like I said, a fucking sociopath.

I kind of wish I could be angry. Angry the way he gets angry, smoking himself to death, but still keeping his head clear. He cleans his guns when he gets angry. I can't do anything constructive. I can't do anything destructive, for that matter, because I know I'd lose control of myself, especially when it comes to these thoughts about Knives, and it's never good when I lose control. I can't do a fucking thing. I sit and I stare. At a table, at a wall, at anything inanimate. I shake my head when he offers me a drink, feel a slight twinge of regret when he shrugs and leaves, and then I get myself thoroughly depressed. So thanks a bunch, brother.

I guess it's best I'm alone at times like these.

And thank God we got separate rooms, because I know when it gets dark outside and the temperature drops that the tears will come. It's one of those nights. I know he doesn't want to hear it, and I don't want him to, partly to preserve whatever dignity I've got left as far as he's concerned, but mostly because he's the last person I want to keep awake with my incessant sniffling.

I kind of wish he'd come back. It's stupid of me to get drunk with him when I feel like this, though, because drinking makes me babble on more than enough on a good day. I think it's a good thing that he's usually drunk at the time too, because I know things are said that we would normally avoid saying. I doubt he forgets what we've done, because he seems to actually be able to cope with drunkenness - I, of course, am capable of no such thing.

There's one thing I remember, though. He hasn't mentioned it, so I won't either, but I do find it unlikely he's forgotten about it. And even though we didn't really seem to come even close to sex, I kind of feel like I stole those kisses and the things he whispered to me. That's not the kind of thing I want to steal, and I feel pretty guilty about enjoying it. I feel pretty guilty that I'd do it again, were I given the chance.

I really wish he'd come back. I bet if he fucked me I could get over everything for just a little while. I wonder if he knows that it's pretty obvious to me that something like that has happened to him too. I wonder who did it. Was it someone he trusted? Probably not. He doesn't trust anyone, and probably never has. Then again, what do I know about him? Not much of anything, unfortunately. Though not for lack of trying.

God dammit. That moon is a painful sight.


End file.
